Stroke of Scents
by weapon13WhiteFang
Summary: It's late at night and Chance is alone with his deep secret and a fellow ex-assassins scent to help keep him somewhat content. MATURE EYES PLEASE. You have been warned


**Authoress Note: **A long long while back I had read a story that inspired me to write a slash fic for any couple that I felt would fit the idea I had for it. I now can not, sadly, remember the name of the fic or who wrote it. I can, however, remember the idea I got from it. And now you have this.

**Extra Note: **Warning! Chance might be way out of character and this is my first time writing something like this, so it may be off... Also, if you are uncomfortable with self-pleasure, I suggest you leave now. You have been warned :3

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><p>The room is empty.<p>

It's empty now. But he could still make out the outline of Guerrero's presence. Chance can only stare at it for so long, before he has to walk away. He can't deal with this. Not right now. He avoids the room, he avoids the still messy bed, and goes about his day like any other day he's alone.

He feels if he goes in to the room, something will happen. Something he isn't ready for.

He wont go near the room. He practices his tai-chi. He walks Carmine. He goes for a jog, watches TV, takes a shower. Winston comes to check on him and they sit and talk. But he still avoids the room. Until Winston leaves. It's late. He can see the bright lights of San Francisco starting to blaze now. It's late and now he's in the room. The door is shut behind him and he can only stare at the bed.

It's askew. Bedsheets wadded and pillows still slightly smashed from where Guerrero's head was. The bed is left with just a very faint outline. His strong, trained, eyes take in the small flecks of blood and skin; he must have had a bad dream and scratched himself in his sleep again. Chance could remember seeing him do that the first night they had to share a room. It was one time he really feared Guerrero.

He steps closer to the bed and allows himself to take in a light scent; familiar cologne and shampoo brushes his senses, and he feels that he's half-hard under his jeans. His mind wonders back to his friend, his partner, his.. His brother? Whatever he was now, he couldn't remove the image of him sitting and typing at his computer, him slouched down across the couch watching TV... Him waisted as they both open up once again about things they wish they could change.

"Ever wonder what it would be like if the Old Man never found you?" he'd asked, and Chance shrugged.

_'No.. Because if he hadn't found me, I would have never found you.'_ He doesn't say it out loud. He just shrugs and they go on with their conversation. And he can only watch his mouth,his lips, with a horrible fascination.

Chance brushes his fingers across the sheets before he walks around and sits at the edge, at the side, where Guerrero's body had been, before he slowly and gently lays down on his side, staring at his nightstand, before slowly his face turns into the cover. He can smell his shampoo, his cologne and breath, as slowly, almost unnoticed to his own sense, he slips his hand past the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, and slowly starts to stroke.

His mind is ablaze with images. His first meeting with Guerrero. Their first mission together. The first fight they had. The time he was forced to let the older male strip him of his shirt to stitch up his side from a bad knife to the side. He remembers the callous feel of his hands on his hard and sensitive skin, still tingling from the adrenaline of the mission.

He thinks of Guerrero's arms around him as he tries to drag him out of the building he had to light up for evidence, of his arms around his body as he gets him to his car and drives him ten blocks away, before he's on him, hands checking his body, and Chance starts panting.

That familiar and knowing dull throb between his legs slowly increases with each firm, but shaky, stroke and tease he applies. He's biting at the pillow, his a blur of memories. His breathing is quick and he gulps for every breath of air now. He has to bite down, preventing _his_ name from passing his lips. He wouldn't want this. He wouldn't sully _his_ name by crying out for him. Not while he's like _this_.

Chance, his body shaking and the throb becoming almost like a second heartbeat, rolls onto his stomach and uses his knees to arch his his hips up, his ass in the air, as he slowly spreads his knees as wide as he can, continuing to work at his ever hardening erection, his vision blurring. His hips twitch and grind against his hand, his boxers and sweats slowly sliding off his hips and down to the bend of his legs.

His arm, now in a weird position, Chance moves up and uses to drag the pillow with Guerrero's scent closer to him. As if he was pulling the man himself closer to him as he continued this wanton behavior. What would he think if saw this? If he knew that his best and only true friend, was jacking off on the bed he had just hours ago slept in.

Chance doesn't want to think that. He pushes at the though, forcing it to leave. He doesn't want Guerrero to hate him. Doesn't want him to think he's fucked up more than he already is... He doesn't want that. Chance whimpers and grasps at a new image. He imagines what expressions Guerrero would make if it was his erection Chance's hand was now wrapped around. Tries to imagine what sounds he'd make as their bodies are pressed and sealed against each other on the bed – on Chance's bed.

Chance whimpers and pants, his mouth wide as he bites at the pillow, shuddering. He can feel the impending orgasm pushing and crashing through him, his body jerking and his hand and body shaking. He can only shut his eyes tight and let his imagination show Guerrero as he shudders and claws with him. And then he comes, letting out a deep, gurgled, groan and a deep, sharp and almost painful, shudder of breath.

It takes him awhile to relax. His body slowly slides as gravity presses him into the bed,his hand still around his now limp self. He's covered in a thin layer of sweat. The pillow he slowly releases from his tongue and teeth.

He's sick. A sick wreck. That's all he is, he thinks, as he feels the sticky and slick residue sliding between his fingers and down his stomach where his shirt had ridden up. He lays there and takes in the smell of his scent and Guerrero's mixing, enjoying it, yet disgusted by it as well.

He shudders and pushes himself up, but doesn't do more than stare at the bed, at the image of Guerrero asleep under him now, and he can't help but mentally curse how wrong he is, before he's finally able to release his hand and walk to the guest bathroom, quietly wash his hands and grab some tissues, before pulling his boxers and pants up.

He quietly walks to the bed and strips them off all their sheets, and heads to the laundry room to deposit them, before heading back up stairs to let himself watch a late night movie, his mind on his old friend through every second.


End file.
